Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

Awadhesh Bihari quickly stands up, dusting his kurta. The reporter greets the politician. 'So, Awadhesh Bihariji, will there be some action this time? Your last protest was quite tame.'

The politician gives a shrewd smile. 'You just watch, Nikita. This time we have even lined up Gandhi Baba. Jagdamba Pal will be humiliated in his own den.'

The reporter looks at Mohan Kumar lying on the platform and nods at Bihari. 'I like the Gandhi Baba angle. We might cover it in the evening bulletin.' Lowering her voice to a whisper she tells him, 'If he dies, we will make it the lead story.'

Bihari nods.

'Lobo, I want you to start taking shots,' she instructs the cameraman.

'GANDHI BABA CRITICAL' is the headline in all the newspapers the next morning. At ten o'clock the MLA arrives in a Scorpio, flashing a blue beacon. Four commandos with Sten guns accompany him. The MLA is a giant, square-headed man with jet-black hair and mean dark eyes. Sitting down on the platform next to Mohan Kumar, he whispers to him, 'Gandhi Baba Sahib, why are you doing this?'

'To stop this perversion,' Mohan replies, his voice still strong.

'What you call perversion is a natural human drive. However much you may try to hide it, sex will surface in some form or other.'

'I am not protesting against sex. I am protesting against the perversion of sex, this commodification of women.'

'But my films contain nothing objectionable at all. They are cleared by the Censor Board,' he says. 'If you want to see the commodification of women then go five hundred metres to the underground Palika Bazaar. There you can buy all the triple-X films you want for just a hundred rupees each. Go ten kilometres to GB Road and for a hundred rupees you can actually buy a young girl. Why don't you try and stop these evils instead of picketing our hall?'

'A perversion doesn't cease to be a perversion just because it is perverse to a lesser degree. My fast will be a mortal blow against all purveyors of sin in society.'

'Look, Gandhi Baba, we don't want unnecessary trouble. I am a politician. Your protest is damaging my reputation. On behalf of the Distributors Association of North India, I have been authorized to offer you twenty thousand rupees if you call off your protest.'

Mohan Kumar laughs. 'My fight is not for money. You cannot buy me with four pieces of silver.'

'OK, how about twenty-five thousand, then?'

Mohan Kumar shakes his head. 'Mr Pal, once I have taken a vow, no power on earth can stop me from following it.'

The MLA is beginning to lose his temper. 'Who the hell do you think you are? Here I am, speaking to you so politely and you are behaving as if you are really Mahatma Gandhi. Come now, enough of this drama. I want you to vacate this spot immediately or I will have you forcibly removed.'

'A satyagrahi has infinite patience, abundant faith in others, and ample hope. According to the code of the satyagrahi, there is no such thing as surrender to brute force.'

'You petty bastard.' Jagdamba Pal lunges at Mohan Kumar. A former boxer, he makes unerring contact with Mohan Kumar's face and a fountain of blood gushes from the bureaucrat's nose.

'Hey Ram!' Mohan cries and falls down. Shanti screams in horror. Jagdamba Pal stands for a moment, amazed at what he has done, then scrambles back to his vehicle.

'Gandhi Baba has been hit!' The cry goes through the crowd like bush fire.

'Kill the bastard!' Awadhesh Bihari screams. His followers immediately charge after the MLA, who is already driving away. 'Burn down the cinema!' Awadhesh Bihari shrills and the mob races into the hall.

'Wait…wait…' Mohan shouts, but his cries fall on deaf ears. Within seconds, the surging crowd has broken down the foyer door and rushed into the hall. Ten minutes later, black smoke is billowing from the cinema, the audience is running out in a panic and the air is reverberating with the sirens of ambulances and fire engines.

A police van screeches to a halt in front of the cinema. Constables spring out like rabbits and train their carbines on Mohan Kumar. An Inspector approaches him, accompanied by the cinema manager. 'Is this the man?' he asks, pointing a finger at Mohan.

'Yes, Sir,' the manager cries. 'This is Gandhi Baba. He is responsible for destroying the cinema.'

The Inspector taps his cane on his palm. 'You are under arrest, Gandhi Baba.'

'Arrest? What for?' Mohan asks, a handkerchief pressed on his nose to stop the flow of blood.

'Section 307: attempt to murder, Section 425: mischief resulting in damage to property, Section 337: endangering personal safety of others, Section 153: provocation to riot. Come on, we have had enough of your antics.'

'But my name is not Gandhi Baba. It is Mohan Kumar. I am an ex-IAS officer,' he says haughtily, drawing himself to his full height.

'Doesn't matter what you call yourself. You are under arrest.' He gestures to his constables. 'Take him away.'

Tihar Jail is a series of seven prison blocks in west Delhi. Originally built for seven thousand inmates, it now houses thirteen thousand prisoners, nine thousand of whom are awaiting trial.

The warden is a fleshy man with heavy jowls and greying hair. Mohan stands before him in his prison uniform, bristling with restrained anger. The warden gives him a greasy smile. 'Welcome, Sir. It is very rare that we have the privilege of hosting senior civil servants.'

'You know that I shouldn't be here at all,' Mohan fumes. 'That magistrate who remanded me to judicial custody for four months deserves to have his head examined. Anyway, I hope you have received a call from my batchmate, the Police Commissioner?'

Yes, Sir,' the warden nods. 'Police Commisssioner Sahib has already instructed us to take good care of you. So I have put you in a high-security cell with Babloo Tiwari.'

'Babloo Tiwari? The notorious gangster?'

The warden nods.

'And how is that a favour?'

'You will see, Sir. In Tihar, nothing is as it seems. Come, let me show you to your cell.'

He escorts Mohan along long narrow corridors, a fat bunch of keys jingling in his hand. The jail seems clean and well maintained, but with a cloying odour, a cross between the astringent smell of a hospital and the bilious smell of a butchery. They pass through a courtyard where prisoners stand in line, doing exercises. 'Here at Tihar, we try our best to reform the prisoners. We have introduced programmes such as vipassana and yoga. We also have an excellent library and reading room,' the warden says proudly.

The cell is located at the southern end of the jail. 'All our cells are seven by ten feet,' the warden says as he unlocks the thick iron grille door. 'This one is the largest, two cells combined into one, actually. And see what it has.' They step inside and Mohan blinks in astonishment. The cell has wall-to-wall beige carpeting, a small colour TV, and even a minibar. There is a bunk bed, with a man in prison uniform sleeping on the lower berth, wrapped in a brown blanket.

'Welcome to jail, VIP style,' the warden grins.

'I should be grateful for small mercies.' Mohan permits himself half a smile. 'But I would have preferred to be alone. Why don't you transfer this fellow Tiwari to another cell?'

'Look, Sir, this is not a hotel where I can allot rooms at my discretion,' the warden says testily. 'Babloo Tiwari is in this cell because he has even better connections than you.' He gently pats the sleeping prisoner's shoulder. 'Tiwariji, please wake up.'

The prisoner sits up, rubbing his eyes. He is a short man, with a round, clean-shaven face and long, straight hair which falls over his forehead. He stretches his arms and yawns. 'What are you doing here, Jailer Sahib?' he asks in a sleepy voice.

'I have come to introduce you to your new cellmate. Meet Mr Mohan Kumar, IAS.'